T 65
by IBG
Summary: Lord Vader has added yet another modified star fighter to his collection


T-65

I am now the custodian of an Incom Systems T-65 X wing. A distinctly rebellious model, given the numerous battle markings adorning its long snout.

After the last inept offerings from Sienar Systems, I turned my fascination mostly to items of my own design, until now.

This fighter is different. The Imperial Navy, with its vast resouces, may purchase similar craft for simulated excercises, but those are diluted versions of this opportunity. They cannot compare to ships flown in combat against us, and what can be gleaned from them.

Generally, Rebel pilots die fighting and their ships along with them. A now-familiar swirl ripples through the remains of my gut with that thought, and I am disgusted with myself. I fold the feeling away with a grunt and a clench of my fist.

What awaits in my private hangar is a rare jewel indeed, and I clear my mind of distractions to take optimal advantage.

None alive understand the insight this ship will give me into its owner – his thought processes, strengths, weaknesses, habits, preferences, personal comforts – so much to learn...  
>Yet, that mundane information cannot compare to the lingering trace of the pilot that remains in the Force. It is so with every ship that is truly lived in, and moreso with a young pilot, so unsheilded and Force-strong...…<p>

I do not acknowlege any motives beyond the opportunity to learn about my adversary.

I have it brought aboard Executor by the maintenance team that usually handles Black squadron and my TIE Advanced x1.

Black II contacts me for instructions at the moment I anticipated they would arrive, and I can sense his confusion, though he hides it well in his manner and speech. He knows better than to question me aloud, or even in thought.

'Place the captured item with my private collection.' I tell him.

'Yes, MiLord,' he answers. 'Lt Marony's standard sensor scans….'

The men who fly with me are familiar with my methods. It is standard procedure to scan a captured ship thoroughly before it is moored anywhere aboard. Such a ship would never be taken intact to the highly sensitive area I instructed. My decision to transport the X-wing as is, or my overly publicized hunt for Skywalker and my (admittedly) poor responses to failures regarding the boy have made my crew nervous. I can see, in my mind's eye, Alinton's restraining hand between Marony's scanner and the hull plates of Luke's ship, while their colleagues await the death of one for incompetence, or the other for insolence. In my current mood, they get neither.

'I will scrutinize it myself at my leisure,' I instruct and cut the transmission.

I am... pensive. Within centimeters having the boy - I allowed him to slip, no, throw himself from my grasp. I cannot undo his choice, and I have no wish to contemplate the consequences.

Once Executor enters hyperspace I leave my quarters for my appointment in the hangar.

...

Intelligence reports and my own experience inform that Luke has spent his years since joining the rebellion bonding with this ship.

The astromech socket is empty. I recall that the R2 unit followed Luke into Cloud City, and likely found its way aboard the Millenium Falcon. I wonder about the droid. Appearance, loyalty, intelligence and resourcefulness suggest it is the same unit I worked with years ago. If it is, the modifications it recieved made it impossible to memory wipe. It serves Luke with an extensive active data set of the boy's history, and more. Interesting that my Son remains ignorant of the facts...

I complete my walk around the X-Wing, and note the obvious additions to the weapons systems that are standard for Rebel craft, and those that are reputed specialties of the elite Rogue squadron and their notorious Commander. Another shiver slithers beneath my respirator, and the corner of my lips tug strangely. I recognise this feeling. Pride in the boy's achievements, despite their direction against the Empire to which I have dedicated my life...

The scanners I've set in motion with the force beep. There are no armed weapons or timers aboard, and radiation levels are acceptable for closer approach. The sound redirects my thoughts and mood to more approproate matters.

I take second tour, closer to the fuselage, immersed in the Force. I am rewarded with flash after flash of the boy inside the access panels, frowning with concentration or effort. I pick up on the soothed feeling of moving meditation. Now I give full credence to the reports that Luke tinkers. I open the panels with the more intense images. I examine the changes and settings I can see, but I hesitate to dismantle anything. I am tempted to pretend that the issue is time, but it is not. This is Luke's fighter, his work. Were he to take this walk with me, we...

No. The boy made his choice on Bespin. Several times. He responded to my mental call, but allowed his friends to take him to hyperspace and away from me...

A scafold comes into view in front of me. It is set beside the cockpit. I fan my anger to temper my emotions, ascend, pop the canopy and look around to resume dispassionate assessment of the craft.

At once I am assaulted by the sense of the boy's residual emotions in the force, excitement, fear and exhileration from countless space battles, and brooding sadness from hours of boredom in hyperspace, and the sheer terror for his friends during his rush to Bespin.

There have been modifications here, to the instrument displays' information and locations, and the triggering for the weapons systems... though not as many as I would have made...

The direction of my thoughts has derailed. Again. I steel myself against the weak emotions that threaten to hijack this fact finding misson against an enemy ace pilot into something else entirely, something I cannot afford to visit now, as regret and mockery storm together at the back of my mind and threaten to overwhelm me. My Master is a deeply jealous man. I cannot indulge worry for or pride in Anakin's Son while Palpatine survives. Should he suspect me of empathy towards the boy, I will have signed Luke's death warrant as surely as if I had lopped off his head instead of his sword-hand...

My respirator hitches at a sharper, nauseated stab from my gut. I wonder vaguely about contamination of my nutrient mix, but I know better by now, and self-deception as unbecoming as it is dangerous for a Sith.

Navcomputer analysis, I decide, but that is a futile direction. Luke (or that R2 unit) has wiped the computer's memory of all co-ordinates back to well before Yavin. As expected.

I look for more personal touches instead and find a compartment with two low quality flimsy holos.

One is of the Millenium Falcon crew with Luke and the Princess of Alderaan. Her relationship with my Son has been the subject of much speculation in intelligence reports, but even in the holo her partiality to Solo is obvious.

The other is of the Rouges.

There are two more pieces of flimsy of even lesser grain behind those. The first is an etching of a couple whose visages are vaguely familiar to me. The woman is placing a meal before the man as he sits at a table, but both are focused on the place where their drawer would sit. It is easy to discern who these must be, and another gripe slithers through my gut.

The last is larger, and folded to fit. My anger flares as unfolding reveals the face of a middle-aged Obi-Wan Kenobi. Lying, theiving traitor that he was, he deserves no place among my Son's loved ones! I twist the flimsy for position that I may rend it across my old Master's face, and the rest of it unfurls revealing another image... I pause, curious to identify who... Luke? I re-orient the flimsy hoping for a new image of the boy - I have seen too few - and freeze at the sight of the man I deny every day. The image is old, copied from a Republic holopress propaganda poster that was widely distributed during the Clone Wars. The full sized version, I recall, was stamped with our names and 'The Team'. The urge to destroy it seizes me again, but another wave of nausea stays my hand, then unexpected pleasure floods me at finding any version of myself here, even if it is _him. _ Luke knows the truth now. Perhaps...

No. I shred all the flimsies, compact the fragments and deposit them into the nearest disposal chute with the aid of the force. Luke must learn the real truth. Now. These images are a luxury of attachment that he can ill afford, and the beings in them cannot aid him. He must be made turn to the one source that can assure his survival. I must see to it, or I will have failed him again, as surely as the weakling in the poster with Obi-Wan did.

I use the force to descend from the cockpit and return to my quarters. I will meditate on all I gleaned and discern my next action.


End file.
